“What’s all this?”
I look up from the coffee table in the basement.
Rosie’s standing at the stairs.
“Hi, Mom.”
“What are you doing, Josh?”
I’ve taped news stories to the walls—stories about children fatally left in cars on hot days, stories about Rachel Bachton sightings.
I’ve drawn a rudimentary map of the eastern coast of the United States and pinpointed where the sightings were in relation to Northgate, Sugar Creek, the confluence of the Vernon and Moon Rivers, and the Goudy tract. And I’ve printed out sections of map to supplement and see these locations and the roads, and railways, that connect them.
I’ve written a timeline of Damien’s life since he arrived in Sugar Creek, noting the years we were living with him and highlighting all the terrible things he did that we can either prove or suspect.
I’ve printed out pictures of Chatham (both brunette and blonde versions), pictures of Chatham and Savannah, and pictures of Rachel, and I’ve taped those to the wall, too.
I’ve printed pictures of the mural Chatham started at the Churchill.
And last, I’ve printed a picture of Chatham’s relief and cut out each square of it individually. I’m moving the pieces around on the coffee table over the Scrabble board to see if they make up a picture that makes sense when rearranged. “I’m analyzing and resynthesizing,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Taking apart the relief Chatham made and putting it back together in a new form.”
“Why?”
“Chatham liked to rearrange the Scrabble tiles before she played them.”
My mother takes a few steps closer.
“I think she likes puzzles. Anagrams. Like you’d think she was going to lay out rats, but she ends up playing star instead.”
“Are you all right, Josh?”
I glance up at her. “Yeah.”
“Have you slept?” She’s practically right next to me now. “At all?”
“No.”
She grabs my wrist; her fingers land on the scab of my new tattoo. “You tattooed her name on your body?”
“It’s not her name,” I say.
“What do you mean it’s not—”
“Her name is Alana Goudy. So this signature is a clue.”
“Oh, God.” A whimper laces through her words. “Joshua, go to sleep.”
“Okay, Mom. You have to hear me out.”
She covers her mouth with a hand to muffle a sob.
“I’m okay,” I say.
She’s shaking her head. “This”—she indicates toward all my clippings—“is not okay. This borders on obsession. And I know you liked this girl, but this . . . It’s not okay.”
“It’s not just about Chatham.” I take her hand and give it a squeeze. I show her the squares I’ve rearranged on the table. “She made this clay relief in sixteen different sections. Each square could potentially belong in any of the sixteen slots,” I explain. “Each square has four potential edges that could be its top. So if I move the squares around, that’s over a thousand possibilities as to what she really wanted us to see in this relief, right? And that’s only if we’re assuming its final shape is a square.”
“What’s all this about, Josh?” My mother is looking at me, not the rearranged squares. She reaches out to feel my forehead, like she did when I was a little kid running a fever.
“I’m fine. Look. I figured out if I took each square, shifted it once to the right, and flipped it to the left . . . we get a totally different picture.”
After a few seconds, she looks at what I’ve done.
“This looks like the house Rachel Bachton used to live in,” I say.
She nods.
“And this—” I show her a picture of the sand castle Chatham built for the twins. “She sculpted this house in September. And it looks like Rachel’s old house, too.”
“It does.”
“I couldn’t find a record of Chatham Claiborne online. And it’s because it isn’t actually her name. She’s Alana Goudy.”
“Who’s Chatham Claiborne, then?”
I pull out a map I’ve yet to pin to the wall. “This is the grid of a city map. And this part here? See that?”
My mother is still nodding, her brows slanting downward in concern. Maybe she thinks I’ve lost it.
“Look at this.” I point to a picture I taped to the wall; it’s the bird’s-eye view of a borough in New Jersey. “This is one of the train stations Rachel Bachton was seen at just after she was taken. Chatham Station, New Jersey. And the little girl’s bones were discovered in Chatham County, Georgia. And this . . .” I point to the next picture. “This is the town closest to where Chatham grew up. The street closest to the station there is Claiborne Street.”
My mother is staring at me like I’m crazy.
“This train station is a few miles from where the dogs alerted on the Goudy tract of land.”
“The Goudy tract? Isn’t that where they’re looking for Rachel Bachton?”
“Don’t you get it? Mom, Chatham doesn’t remember her childhood. But she has this scar.” I fill her in on the cattle brand “accident” and show her the picture of Rachel just before her abduction and point out the birthmark. I tell her about Savannah, the little girl under the floorboards in the stables, the shamrock pin that was red and gold . . . and could have been strung on a gold necklace Rachel was reportedly wearing, or even made to incorporate the heart-shaped charm on Rachel’s necklace. “Chatham drew this swing, too, and she was terrified the moment we pulled up to Damien’s place. It’s possible she’d been there before. She drew these things on the wall at the Churchill . . . Look.” I show her pictures of Chatham’s mural. “There’s shades of Damien in there. Am I right? And that photograph Caroline found . . .”
“What are you saying? That Chatham has something to do with Rachel Bachton’s kidnapping?”
“No. Mom, I think Chatham is Rachel Bachton.”
At last, my mother sighs. “You might be onto something.”
My shoulders, which I didn’t even realize were tense, fall in relief.
“I think we should call the police, Josh.” My mother believes me. She’s going to stand behind me.